


Denn die Todten reiten schnell

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire), lareinenoire, Winter_of_our_Discontent



Category: Dracula - Bram Stoker, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Dogs, Dracula fusion, Epistolary, Except for Hannibal, F/F, F/M, Fusion with Bram Stoker's Dracula novel, Infidelity, Infidelity outside of Hannibal/Will, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Period typical attitudes towards all sorts of things, They're all British, Vampires, Victorian, victorian attitudes towards mental illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 14:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8581804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/lareinenoire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter_of_our_Discontent/pseuds/Winter_of_our_Discontent
Summary: Journal of William Graham4 May-I dreamt last night that I was lost, deep in the forest. An elk appeared before me, a giant such as we no longer have in England. It was black as pitch but seemed to gleam in the moonlight. We walked together, as though old friends. I placed my hand upon his neck and was horrified to find that when I removed it, the hand was covered in blood. I could not tell if it was mine or his. A Hannibal/Dracula fusion.





	1. 3 May - Will Graham

**Author's Note:**

> We decided to start posting this in the hopes that we might bring some enjoyment in these increasingly dark times. 
> 
> We've also tried to mimic the style of a Victorian epistolary, and to avoid any glaring anachronisms, but neither of us are Victorianists, so please be gentle (and let us know, we love feedback!)

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/161648398@N08/39137146252/in/dateposted-public/)

(header art by breannadolly.tumblr.com)

 

_Letter, William Graham to Alana Bloom_

_3 May_

 

My Dear Alana--

 

I write to inform you of my safe arrival in Lithuania. The landscape here is breathtaking, though I am no poet to do it justice in describing it to you. The people have been polite and helpful, and I leave for the Count’s estate on the morrow. Please convey my thoughts and affections to the dogs and your father, whom I endeavour not to disappoint in my execution of this task. And to you, of course, I remain your devoted,

 

Will

  
  
***

 

_Journal of William Graham, Esq_

 

_3 May_

 

I have arrived safely in Lithuania. The people are polite, though confused as to why an Englishman is journeying so far from his home. At least I have the excuse of language to forestall more than the most basic attempts at conversation.

 

I may confess, if only in the privacy of my journal and in what Alana calls my ‘abominable shorthand,’ that I share their confusion. For Alana’s sake I bear it-- for hers and her father’s, for I could not ask for more kindness than he has shewn me, taking me into the bosom of his family, encouraging and aiding me to follow in his own footsteps as a solicitor, and giving me a place in his firm upon the successful completion of my examination. For I, William Graham, am now an esquire, much good may it do me. But then I must have some occupation, and musty tomes of law are more convivial companions than many I have encountered.

 

I hope all is well in England. Gladstone was slightly unwell upon my departure, and I pray he has not gotten worse -- Alana cares for them as carefully as I could wish, but I do believe they miss me almost as much as I them.

 

We are to be married upon my return to England. My dear Alana -- so beautiful, so good-- surely you deserve better than me-- a man barely fit for company, awkward amongst strangers and barely better among friends. And yet you have always seen the best in me, even since our childhood. I pray I may prove worthy to call myself your husband.

 

And yet such as I am sent to speak to Count Lecter, to settle his affairs and speed his passage to our hallowed isle. God forbid I prove the first Englishman he encounter, lest he give up the whole affair at once.

 

_4 May_

 

I dreamt last night that I was lost, deep in the forest. An elk appeared before me, a giant such as we no longer have in England. It was black as pitch but seemed to gleam in the moonlight. We walked together, as though old friends. I placed my hand upon his neck and was horrified to find that when I removed it, the hand was covered in blood. I could not tell if it was mine or his.

 

Perhaps it was the spiced venison of last night sitting ill in my stomach.

 

While I know more Lithuanian than I have made known to those I encounter, I find myself wishing I were indeed fluent, for there is something amiss. I mentioned the Count to the proprietress of my inn, in hopes she might acquaint me with what manner of man he is. To my surprise, she made a gesture I have seen previously, and which I am told is meant to ward off the evil eye, and muttered something I could not understand.

 

I repeated the question to her husband, in hopes that he might answer, but he made the same gesture. They then engaged in a debate that grew so quick and heated that the inn’s other patrons began to take notice, several of them also making the very same warding gesture in my direction. I stood in the centre of this storm wondering what, indeed, I had stumbled upon. I quickly made my excuses and returned to my room to secure my things.

 

As I finished my packing, there came a knock upon my door. It was the landlady.

 

“Pone Graham, are you bound for Count Lecter’s?”

 

I replied that I was expected there this very evening. Her eyes widened and she clutched at the crucifix at her breast.

 

“Tonight? No, today of all the days you must not-- it is St. George’s Eve!”

 

I replied again, regretful, for she was clearly sincere and speaking out of a concern for myself, a stranger and a foreigner, that I could not help but find touching, but affirming that I must indeed go.

 

She continued with vague warnings of the peril which must befall me, slipping between English and Lithuanian as she grew more upset. For my part, I was unsure as to what I should do seeing a woman, older and a stranger to me, so disturbed. She broke into tears, and had it been in my power to acquiesce to her request I should have done so in an instant rather than see her continue so. But alas, I am not now my own master.

 

I could only thank her for her kind words and her hospitality and repeat that I must go, indeed, that my carriage was very shortly to leave.

 

“Stubborn Englishman! You would go to your death for the sake of your timetables!” She removed the crucifix from her neck and held it out to me. “You must take this. And do not take it off!”

 

As I could at least please her in this matter, I put the crucifix about my neck, tucking it into my shirt, for the chain is very long. It is clearly an object of some age, and precious to her. I attempted to offer her some coin for it, but she would accept none, insisting she would not take payment for doing her duty as a Christian.

 

As I pen this, the post has arrived. I shall write more upon my own arrival at the castle.

 

_5 May_

 

Am I mad? Has the old woman’s terror infected my mind with some strangeness? I should sleep, for it must be dawn soon and I have not yet been abed, but my mind races like a greyhound and I must endeavour to transcribe what I have seen lest I convince myself in the morning that it was only a fever dream brought about by local superstition and too many hours kept from my bed.

 

My companions for the first leg of my journey were two dour looking men, locals, who looked uninterested in conversing had I even made the attempt. One was content to glare at me when my legs not infrequently knocked against his in the cramped coach, while the other immediately fell asleep, snoring rather loudly. The road was rough, but our journey fast, and I had almost put aside the dire forebodings of earlier, excepting when the movement made me aware of the unfamiliar weight of the crucifix against my chest. Thus occupied in watching the landscape pass and lured almost into insensibility by the repeated rocking motions of the coach, I felt myself startle when it stopped suddenly at a crossroads just as dusk had set in in earnest. I peered out the window to see another vehicle blocking the path of our own, engaging in a heated sounding discussion with our driver.

 

Upon seeing me, the other driver called out in passable English, “Mister Graham! I am here to take you to your final destination.”

 

Surprised, I replied, “You were sent by Count Lecter to fetch me?”

 

The man made a brief nod and in the low light his eyes, hidden under the brim of his hat, almost seemed to flash red for a moment. “I do as the count desires. Please, come with me.”

 

Glancing up at my driver he had seemed almost frozen, but at my look he seemed to spring back to life, scrambling to retrieve my luggage from atop the carriage and almost flinging them to the ground as though it contained some dread contagion. I hoped he had not done the contents amiss in his haste, as they contained important legal texts and papers, as well as my own sparse belongings.

 

As I exited the coach, Count Lecter’s man picked up my discarded trunks and placed them in his own vehicle. He must have been a very strong man, for I had packed them myself and knew their weight, but he lifted them as though they were filled with feathers.

 

He helped me into the seat next to him, and I startled at his touch, which was cold with the night air. He had the advantage of me, for between his clothing and the darkness I could barely get a look at him, but I felt the hint of a smile when I asked, “How did you know who I was?”

 

“We do not have so many Englishmen in this part of the country that it would be much carelessness to lose track of them, Mister Graham,” he said. “You appear as you were described to me in the place you are supposed to be at the time you are meant to be. All is proceeding as the Count would wish,” he said, clearly pleased at the success of his efforts on his employer’s behalf.

 

I looked back to see my former coachman making the sign against the evil eye in our direction before bidding his horses onward in great haste.

 

My driver gestured to an assortment of furs and blankets on the seat. “Wrap yourself warmly, for the night has teeth.” I was only too pleased to take his advice, as the combination of the night air and the speed at which we travelled had me quite chilled. And we travelled quickly indeed! Perhaps it was simply the contrast between the enclosed travel of my earlier coach and the exposed seating I now occupied, but the horses seemed to almost fly over the rough trails. Tired, unsure of conversation, and unwilling to expose more of myself than necessary to the night air, I burrowed into the wrappings while clinging to my seat for dear life.

 

We came to a sudden stop, and I could not conceal some alarm when a look around confirmed that we were in the midst of the wilderness. “Why have we stopped?”

 

“Remain here,” said he, and jumped from his seat to head off I know not where.

 

I huddled in the furs, unsure of what else I might do. Around me, the darkness felt as a predator, closing in on the edges of the dim light provided by our lantern. Beyond its reach, in the wilds around us, I could make out several small, bluish, glowing lights which seemed to dance or hover above the ground. I am not a superstitious man, but there was nothing of the earthly realm about them.

 

In the distance, wolves howled, a mournful noise. Even in my fear, I sympathised, for even predators such as they must be lonely on such a night.

 

The horses seemed as ill at ease as I, snorting and whinnying as they paced in place.

 

After what was likely only the span of a few moments but felt far longer, my driver emerged from the darkness, leaping back into his seat.

 

Suspecting he would be unwilling to share whatever business lured him out into the night, and sensible of the disadvantage I would be at in the event of his displeasure, I asked instead, “What are those lights?”

 

“The peasants call them corpse lights, the souls of the unhallowed dead. They say that on certain nights they rise over unmarked graves and buried treasures.”

 

“Nights such as this?”

 

“So it is said,” he said, and would say no more.

 

We paused again, and then again, three times in total. Each time I found myself left alone with the horses while my companion pursued his own ends in the wilderness.

 

The third time, he seemed to stay away longer, and I could hear the wolf cries growing louder and closer. From the increased agitation of the horses, they too must have heard or smelled the threat. I began to fear they might bolt. I reached down, grabbing at the brick at my feet, once hot, but now no warmer than the air.

 

Holding it to my chest, I began to consider what I might do. I determined that, should the wolves approach, I must wait until they were almost upon me to attack. My vow was thankfully in vain, for it was then the coachman appeared out of the darkness, startling me almost as much as if it had been one of the wolves jumping into the seat.

 

He took one look at my hands, wrapped around the brick, and let out a low chuckle. “Are all Englishmen so resourceful? Or only their solicitors?”

 

“I should not like to stand as an example of either.”

 

“You are a strange man, Mister Graham.”

 

“I hope your count shall not find me so.”

 

“I think he will find you are not what he is expecting.”

 

We passed the rest of the journey in silence, finally arriving at Castle Lecter. The driver vanished as soon as he had finished deposited my luggage in the entryway, leaving me to make my way into the castle alone.

 

Having committed this to paper, I feel the last of my energy leaving me, and shall now to my bed. I will write the rest, and of my meeting with the Count, when I awake.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Journal of William Graham, Esq_

_Later_

 

As I wake, my pocketwatch confirms what the dying red streaks across the sky tell me—that I have spent all of the day in the arms of Morpheus. I have read over my earlier entry, and now, with the benefit of rest, wonder at myself. Can I truly have experienced that? Or must I now doubt my own memories? I am grateful, at least, that I have written it down, however strange it may be. I must continue to write.

 

Castle Lecter is an imposing structure, not one of those English castles changed over centuries into manor houses now barely built to withstand a garden party. She is brick and not stone, and wears her years with dignity and a certain sense of the dramatic, seated as she is on the edge of a precipice. Baedeker’s must know more of her design and history than I, for it was dark when I arrived, though the moon hung full and low.

 

The thick outer wall led to an inner courtyard, and beyond it the entrance to what must be the inner keep lit with oil lamps, burning to light a path which I eagerly followed into to a main hall. The servants must all have been abed, for I neither saw nor heard signs of life. The main hall, dimly lit, was hung with banners, tapestries, weapons, and hunting trophies. Their shapes cast strange, flickering shadows onto the walls.

 

“Good evening, Mister William Graham,” a voice said, echoing in the vast space. “I bid you welcome you to my castle.”

 

I startled slightly to see Count Lecter, for it must be he, across the room, holding an oil lamp aloft. “Good evening, Count Lecter,” I replied, bowing slightly.

 

“Please, follow me; you must be chilled from your journey.”

 

He led me on a path I am not sure I could retrace in the light of day, through corridors and rooms, until we arrived in a small chamber warmed by a roaring fire, furnished in a manner fit for a lord. He offered me brandy. I protested at being served by him, though not strongly, for at this hour the brandy would sit warm and welcome in my stomach.

 

The count replied, smiling, “Nonsense, I am the host and you are my guest. I must insist upon it.”

 

In the firelight I was finally able to properly observe my host. He is a tall man, not unhandsome, built as upright and solid as his castle. The silvery-white of his hair, pulled into a queue, betrays his age, but his eyes, which appeared burgundy in the firelight, shine with a sharp vitality. His face, underneath a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, is an aristocratic one, with sharp planes and angles as though it were hewn rather than grown. His lips are thick and bent up at the corners in a manner more of a smirk than a smile, though his manners display a courteous friendliness which must be all the more welcome after my travels. His dress was of an older style, and more colourful than is the custom in England, but clearly well made and tended to, and he wore it with a natural refinement. Had I met him in the streets I would have known him immediately as a man of note.

 

I smiled inwardly at the thought of the impression his arrival must make on London, for here was not a man that might be overlooked.

 

He ventured one or two polite queries as to my travels before he interrupted himself, noting the growing slowness of my responses and the languor of my limbs. “But of course, you must be wearied after your long journey. Let me show you to your bedchamber.”

 

The count again guided me through his maze of a castle, this time to a room dominated by a large canopied bed. The walk revived me just enough that on his departure I was able to scribble an account of my journey before succumbing to sleep.

 

The day shows me to be in a bedchamber decorated in ancient, well-appointed furniture and hangings that must have been the height of luxury when they were commissioned. Everything is scrupulously maintained in a way that might please the most fastidious housewife, without a hint of dust or cobweb to be seen. The only lack is of a mirror above the washbasin. I shall have to use my pocket mirror to shave. The stubble adorning my face, as natural as it might be after my recent travels, seems even further out of place amidst the fastidiousness of Castle Lecter and its owner.

 

I completed my morning, or, in this instance, evening, ablutions, dressing and making my way cautiously towards the chamber I remembered from the night before. I found a dining room, the table already laid out with a sumptuous feast, my host at the head of the table. At his beckoning I sat next to him at what I noted was the only other place setting.

 

As he himself served me an exquisite-looking meal, he said, “I hope you can again forgive me this informality, Mr. Graham, but I have grown accustomed to a certain privacy and as such do not keep a household staff.” I replied that I myself was fond of solitude, at which point my host smiled and proclaimed, “Excellent! I feel we shall get on very well indeed.”

 

“But then… do you mean to tell me you have done this all yourself?” I asked, gesturing to the feast before us.

 

“Indeed, and am delighted to have such an appreciative audience for my efforts.”

 

“I did not think to be served by a count.”

 

“I imagine that much here will not be as you are used to.”

 

The count seemed to take as much sustenance from my enjoyment of the meal as from his own more parsimonious eating, while I am embarrassed to confess my plate was almost scraped bare by meal’s end. My Alana would perhaps be most astonished of all to hear that he was able to draw some measure of conversation from me.

 

Count Lecter is a compelling man. He seems simultaneously unreal—a figure from a legend or a fairy tale—and yet at the same time seems the most real and true thing in the room, all else reduced to shifting form and dancing shadow.

 

But I grow fanciful again. I am an English solicitor in a brick and mortar castle, assigned to the dreary mundanity of deeds and transfers, the very apparatus of modernity, not a child in a fairy tale.

 

 

***

 

_Journal of Doctor Alana Bloom_

_\--------- Institute, London_

_30 May_

 

I have decided to keep a journal of my work here at the Institute. Doctor Chilton, my superior, keeps his on a phonograph, but I find that I trust pen and paper more, and that writing out my thoughts helps me to keep them in order. I find, too, that my memory is improving, that I can recall entire conversations long enough to write them down. All in shorthand, of course. I doubt there is anything in this journal of interest to others, but if I am writing of patients, I feel it my duty to preserve their privacy to the best of my ability.

 

The attendants at the Institute are still unsure of how to treat me, for I am neither doctor nor patient—neither fish nor fowl. Officially I am here as companion to Doctor Chilton’s newest patient, and while there is no shortage of newsprint devoted to her story, I feel compelled to tell it as I know it, in my own words.

 

I have known Miss Abigail Hobbs since she was a child. Her father, Sir Gareth Hobbs, was a baronet in ------shire. My father’s law firm had served the Hobbs family for nigh on five generations, and, until some three months ago, I would have called him a dour but perfectly harmless man, devoted to his estate and a renowned hunter.

 

In this, I fear, I was quite wrong. We all were.

 

I will not rehearse the awful details of his crimes, for the papers have trod those bloody paths time and time again. It was Miss Abigail who had found her father in the midst of killing her poor mother, and her screaming alerted the servants. Nor did Miss Abigail escape unscathed, for her father took his bloodied knife to her and nearly cut her throat before turning that same knife upon himself and ending his miserable life.

 

My father was in charge of Sir Gareth’s will, and once it became certain that Miss Abigail would survive her dreadful injury, it became equally clear that by the deaths of both of her parents, she was now an heiress. But since she is only sixteen, she cannot be without a guardian. My father offered—having known her all these years—but her mother’s family, convinced that her father’s bad blood would tell sooner or later, gave her into Doctor Chilton’s care. My father then put one condition upon this arrangement—that I would be Miss Abigail’s companion, as it was unseemly for a lady of her station to be without one.

 

I have made my own arrangements with Doctor Chilton to observe his patients and—under his supervision—treat them. I am, after all, a trained physician, no matter what the medical establishment may think. But I suspect that the good doctor is less concerned with my qualifications than he is with his own reputation amongst his patrons. So I go about my business behind the hospital’s doors, and when Doctor Chilton is making his rounds with guests, I am no more than Miss Abigail’s chaperone.

 

It is enough, for now. When Will returns and we are married, perhaps Miss Abigail might stay with us for a time, until she gains her majority. For all that Will guards his solitude as a dog guards a bone, it was he who suggested the idea after seeing her at her parents’ funeral. I see much in common between him and Abigail, truth be told. Such an arrangement might be good for them both.

 

But all of that must wait until Will has returned from his enterprise in Lithuania. Father hopes this new foreign client will convince others in London society that his firm is not tainted by the horror of Sir Gareth’s crimes. He is a nobleman—that much has been disclosed to me—and he intends to buy property in London, but more than that I do not know.

 

Father still does not approve of my choice. He allows it—for Miss Abigail’s sake—but he does not like it. He misses my mother desperately, as I do, but he forgets that I am twenty-two years old and ceased to be a little girl many years ago. Perhaps when I am married, things will change. I tell myself that and perhaps I will someday believe it. One must have hope; otherwise, what is the point?

 

But enough of such morbid fancies. I have patient observations to record and there are only so many hours in the day.

 

***

 

_Journal of Miss Abigail Hobbs, formerly of Shrikesnest Hall_

_1 June_

 

Dear journal,

 

My mother used to say that a journal is a friend you can keep in your pocket, and I am truly one in desperate need of such companionship. Miss Bloom tries her hardest to make me feel normal—as though I can feel such a thing, as though I do not hear the taunts and cries of the schoolchildren when we go for walks, or see their elders unwilling to meet my gaze—but she is preoccupied with her own work (work! She is to be a doctress!) and with her concern for her fiance Mr Graham, who has gone traveling on the Continent. I have never been to the Continent, and I suppose I shall never go, excepting I join some circus and travel as one of their freaks.

 

Mrs. Lounds has been by to try and see me again. Doctor Chilton will not permit it, but I found her calling card hidden in the nook of a tree along a path on the grounds I am fond of, with my name scribbled on the back. He and Miss Bloom want to protect me from her, but what could she say about me that is worse than what I have heard from the mouths of others? Than what I have seen with my own eyes? I have seen her writing in some of the penny dreadfuls left behind by some of the attendants—I did not know a woman could write in such a way.

 

I will find a way to meet with her. Perhaps she can pay me for my story, and then I may travel the world as I like.

 

***

 

_Journal of Miss Abigail Hobbs_

_3 June_

 

Two days ago I left a note in the nook of the tree for Mrs Lounds. Today I found it replaced with a folded piece of paper asking me to join her for tea at a shop nearby, Monday at noon. I am to leave a reply if I can get away. I wonder if she is sneaking in herself, or if she has bribed some of Doctor Chilton’s staff into aiding her. I suspect it is the latter, as Doctor Chilton will be gone on Monday, and Miss Bloom will be distracted in his absence. She is often distracted nowadays, with concern over her Mister Graham. She showed me a photograph of him and he is very handsome, though he seems to possess a quite prodigious number of dogs. I said so to Miss Bloom, and she owned that she visited them while he was away, and they seemed to miss him as much as she does.

 

I wonder if I shall ever have a suitor, but I do not think it likely. What suitable gentleman would wish to bring me home? And I have no interest in the less respectable sort who might be interested in me because of my past rather than to spite it. I have already seen the gleam in Dr. Chilton’s eyes when he asks me of my days and my dreams—my own mind seems quite unsafe from his grasping. I already bear a scar on my throat from my father’s own attempt to open me up, I do not require another one running about my forehead from the doctor’s efforts to pry into my thoughts.

 

***

 

_5 June_

_Advertisement_

 

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To one and all,

 

Monsieur Leroux introduced us to the ghost of the Paris Opera, but prepare, my dearest readers, for a truly blood-chilling—and wholly _English_ —tale of a most dreadful criminal who also has a taste for the operatic. Or at least the musical.

 

A series of gruesome killings have left the police aghast and the public in fear for their very lives. Four men and one woman, their throats slashed open and their tongues torn out...for what? What does the killer seek? And, most important of all, can we be sure that it is not the Ripper come again?

 

Find out in one week’s time…

 

Yours, ever,

Mrs. F. Lounds


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have art!! No, seriously WE HAVE ART. Thanks to the amazingly talented breannadolly.tumblr.com!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/161648398@N08/39137146252/in/dateposted-public/)

 

_William Graham's Journal_

_8 May_

 

I find myself grateful Count Lecter is of the aristocracy and not the labouring classes, for I begin to suspect his knowledge of British Law is equal to my own, if not the superior, and I regret the pains I went to in bringing some of my own tomes as his collection of legal texts is as complete as any member of the bar might wish, and certainly sufficient for present need without my meager additions.

 

He is all politeness as we attend to the business that has brought me to his door, but with a thoroughness and attention to detail that must do credit to any generals amongst his ancestry. I think we might proceed faster if he knew less, for while he takes pains to make clear he suffers from no distrust of the firm of Bloom & Graham in our representation of his interests, he will not be satisfied until he has made himself master of every ink blot. I often feel I have returned to my studies, once again pinned like a moth under the questioning stare of a professor as he awaits my responses.

 

In between quizzing me he draws me into conversation on any number of subjects, from Dante to the Aeneid, for he is as well read as any Oxonian. He is a convivial companion, though there are moments--I scarce know what to make of them--when he stares at me with fiery eyes as though he is searching for I know not what in my countenance. But the moment passes quickly, and I almost convince myself I must be mistaken, until it happens once again.

 

I do not know what the count does during the day, for he refuses to undertake our business until after nightfall, and even then only after we have eaten, each meal seemingly more impressive than the last. He says that while not attending to him my time is my own but that I am not to enter any areas of the castle which I may find barred, a request that, while I immediately agreed, has left me fancifully imagining myself a sort of Bluebeard’s wife.

 

“The castle is old, much older than you are used to, and she has her own dangers. It would soothe my heart to have you stay where I know you will be safe, Mr Graham.”

 

Such things would sound foolish in London, but here in the depths of Lithuanian pine forests, so quiet at night that I can hear the wolves conversing with one another, a man could start seeing danger in shadows. Count Lecter’s castle has neither electric lights nor gas lamps--I have candles in my bedroom and a small lantern for the long corridors. Another oddity that I noticed this evening is the lack of mirrors. I had thought it might be a peculiarity of my room, but there isn’t a single mirror in the entire castle, so far as I have seen. For a gentleman as well turned-out as Count Lecter, this is a perplexing absence.

 

***

 

_William Graham’s Journal_

_10 May_

 

I had revealed to Count Lecter in one of our conversations that I am an avid fisherman when I am able, and he has offered to direct me to a stream nearby which might offer me good sport. I had brought with me elements of tackle, more out of hope than sense, and so was equipped to take advantage of his hospitality. I confess that in addition to wanting to provide salmon for his table I shall be glad of the opportunity for fresh air and sunlight, for the castle is as oppressive as it is grand, and the shadows encroach upon me ever more strongly. Count Lecter demurred from accompanying me, and I did not press him, but when I awakened at dawn, I discovered outside my room a picnic basket topped by a cunningly drawn map of the path to the stream. The count is fond of sketching, and to my untrained eyes quite skilled. Last evening I caught him drawing a likeness of me.

 

“Beautifully done,” I told him, rather embarrassed. “Though it seems a shame to waste such talent on such a poor subject.”

 

“On the contrary, if it is beautiful the credit must go to the subject rather than the execution.”

 

“You forget that of late I have been enjoying your cooking. I suspect anything in your hands must be turned into art,” I replied honestly.

 

I made my way to the stream, and spent a pleasant morning amongst nature, feeling more myself than I have in quite some time. Perhaps Alana is right to suggest that I have been over-tiring myself with work. I hope all proceeds well in England in my absence.

 

Whilst there, I made a new friend: a dog who wandered out of the woods to sit on the bank and observe my efforts. He was of medium size, with a dark, sleek coat, blackish overall but with a lighter brown about the muzzle and legs, and a white star upon his chest. He has the shape and appearance of some breed of hound, perhaps one of the continental variety? From his friendliness and the worn leather collar, I must conclude him to be the property of someone nearby, but with his evident hunger, it was no matter to throw some small measure of my catch his way once I had deboned it, which he seemed to enjoy just as much as his share of the Count’s meal. He responded well to my attentions, long tail beating a swift tattoo upon the ground.

 

I bid him adieu with much reluctance, but it was well past time for me to return to the castle.

 

Upon my return I looked around for some form of pantry in which the fish might be stored, but failed and was forced to simply hang them from the antlers of an ill-fated deer. I said as much to the Count when he congratulated me on my catch.

 

“I would have put them in the larder but had no idea where it might be found.”

 

“It is just as well,” said the Count. “The steps to the storage below are...quite worn and uneven. I should not like you to risk a fall.”

 

As we ate the fish, which the count had prepared simply but with what I must now think of as his usual skill, he remarked, “I must again compliment you, Mr. Graham. It has been far too long since someone has brought me such a feast.”

 

“What have we been eating?” I asked.

 

“Wild game which I myself have hunted. I find I much prefer it to the taste of animals who have never known freedom.”

 

“Venison?” It did not quite taste as I remembered, but it had been many years since I had tasted it, for the deer in the woods near my home had long departed for friendlier ground.

 

He waved a hand around to indicate the taxidermy surrounding us. “There are many animals in these forests-- rabbits, deer, stags, elk, even wild boar.”

 

“We have been eating wild pig, then?” I hazarded.

 

The count smiled, the smile of a hunter. “Indeed.”

 

It was then I heard a plaintive cry--not the howls of wolves which I had grown accustomed to, but the long, drawn out bay of a hound. I rushed to the nearest window to see that somehow my forest friend had found his way to the castle gates and was seeking admittance.

 

“That is the dog I saw in the forest earlier!” I cried out in surprise.

 

“It appears you are being hunted, Mr. Graham,” the count said, sounding amused. “Sadly for your friend, so is he.”

 

It was then that I heard it--the answering howls emerging from the forest. I looked to my host in some distress. “What do you mean?”

 

“When the fox hears the rabbit scream, he comes running--but not to help.”

 

“We must rescue him, then.” I dashed toward the door. In a moment, the count’s hand was upon my shoulder, his cold grip like steel.

 

His expression, when I glanced back at him, revealed puzzlement at my fervour. “I have told you already that it is not safe for you to leave the castle at night.”

 

“Well, then, Count Lecter, you must do it.” I replied, for I could hear the wolves, and the death they brought with them for that unfortunate hound, drawing closer. “Or his death shall be upon your hands.”

 

He looked into my eyes-- I avoid eye contact when I am able but could hardly escape it here, as close as we now stood to each other. His gaze burned like banked coals that but waited for a prodding to spring back to glorious flame. I do not know what he saw in mine, but after a time both much too long and far too short, he released me to fly from the room himself, leaving me to watch the tableau through the window helplessly, like a maiden in a tower.

 

Upon his appearance at the gate, which seemed to occur in almost the same instant as his departure from the room, the wolves scattered as though it were they who were the prey. The Count took the poor hound by the scruff, lifted him easily with one hand, and---

 

\---perhaps it was the resemblance of the hound’s plight to my own encounter on the coach ride, but I was suddenly struck by the way the count had moved as he affrighted the wolves. I felt a fool for not realising it before, but I begin to wonder if this is a game for which I do not know the rules.

 

The count was the coachman.

 

***

 

_Letter, Will Graham to Alana Bloom_

_11 May_

 

My dearest Alana,

 

If absent friends are a thorn in one’s heart, then how much more the pain to be separated from one’s love? Thus it grieves me, not simply from my own pain, but the knowledge of the pain that this letter carries with it, to confess that Count Lecter’s affairs require my presence for another month.

 

I remain, ever yours,

 

Will

 

P.S. I have enclosed a sketch of Count Lecter’s, which he offers as recompense for having deprived you of my company.

 

***

 

_Doctor Bloom’s Journal_

_6 June_

 

I do believe Miss Abigail has an admirer.

 

I haven’t said anything to her about my knowing, but I saw her creep out to to the old oak tree on the edge of the garden and remove what appeared to be a _billet-doux_ from it. She is such a self-possessed young lady that I cannot imagine her being lovesick. Doctor Chilton may not be the most observant man, but if he should find her with correspondence from outside, no doubt our visits to the garden will be curtailed, and surely the poor girl has lost enough without these small luxuries.

 

There has been no word from Will for weeks now. I have read over his last letter countless times—indeed, the creases in the foolscap are almost vivisected. While Will’s signature is as it ever was—if a bit hurried—the sentiments expressed have left me in some confusion, for they are, indeed, sentiments. Will is many things, and I have no doubt of his affection, but he is not a man given to poetry. I wonder what manner of man Count Lecter must be, for the drawing Will enclosed has captured that strange, melancholy softness that many who have known him a score of years cannot see. Even my father, who loves Will as his own son, admits that he cannot entirely understand him, and it is striking that Count Lecter can, on such short acquaintance.

 

It is a beautiful drawing, truly a perfect likeness, and by all rights, it ought to occupy a place of honour above my escritoire, but there is something in those lines, something I can only call _unheimlich_ , for there is no word for it in English. A strange wildness that coils below the surface, like the figures on Keats’s Grecian urn, only I do not know if there is truth beneath the beauty. Are these mere women’s fears that I have dismissed for so many years only to embrace them as I wait for my own nuptials? Or is this unease in my heart a sign of some greater danger?

 

But I scarcely have time to wonder these days. Doctor Chilton has taken on several new patients, all of whom are...I cannot say peculiar since all of Doctor Chilton’s patients are peculiar in their own ways. But more so than usual--in fact, sufficiently peculiar that Doctor Chilton only permits me to observe them from another room, and I do not yet have permission to read any of the case notes. I say _yet_ because I intend to ask him as a doctor and as an equal, however we may behave in public.

 

Will would be proud of me, I think. He always seems proud when I stand up for myself. I am indeed fortunate. Most men would not be so understanding.

 

If I knew where I might write to him, I would ask about Miss Abigail and this admirer of hers. She and Will are both out of the ordinary, and despite my friendliness with her, I feel he might understand her as I cannot. But I fear she has made her mark upon me all the same. I cannot look at my own father now without the smallest jolt of unease.

 

None of us imagined Sir Gareth capable of murder, and yet he was. His favourite hobby was, in some sense, murder. Of course, no country squire would ever see it that way, and I would not deny them their sport, but the fact remains that he somehow transformed from a hunter of game to a hunter of young women.

 

I never saw the bodies for myself, and even the papers were ordered to keep their descriptions to a minimum to spare ladies and children, but some words stood out all the same. Four women had all been butchered. At first, we all feared it might be the Ripper, who had somehow flown London’s walls and preyed now upon the surrounding countryside.

 

The police assured us that the Bloody Baronet--as Sir Gareth became known in the press--was not, in fact, Jack the Ripper. Sir Gareth had been in the north country during the time of the Whitechapel murders, so that case remains unsolved, much to Scotland Yard’s shame. And in the little village where I spent my childhood in sweet ignorance, how many others went beneath the Bloody Baronet’s knife whose bodies were never found? Such thoughts do me no good, for it is such thoughts that plague Abigail Hobbs as she tries to recover from all that has happened to her. Doctor Chilton wishes to try hypnosis and has allowed me, albeit reluctantly, to observe his session with Miss Abigail later this evening.

 

I confess here what I did not to Doctor Chilton--that I fear hypnosis may unearth darker things in Abigail Hobbs than he expects.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! The story will diverge more and more from Dracula as we go, so please settle in, it's going to get bumpy.
> 
> We're not yet sure of the update schedule, but we do have more written. (And are having a LOT of fun writing it.) It's our first foray into posting Hannibal, so of course it's a needlessly complicated long Victorian fusion piece.
> 
> Comments and kudos gratefully accepted.


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